


down for the first night

by witching



Series: you've been like a light [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Oral Sex, Platonic Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Season/Series 01, Semi-Public Sex, Tender Sex, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:59:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22871377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: "'Hey, Martin,' Tim drawls, leaning across the table just slightly to look him deep in the eyes, 'can I ask you something?'Sasha hits him rather hard on the arm, glares daggers at him. 'Tim, stop,' she practically begs, looking for all the world as if she might kill him.Apprehensive, Martin looks back and forth between the two of them a few times. He can tell Tim is up to something, but usually when Tim is up to something, it’s relatively harmless, if a bit annoying. Maybe this one is just a bad joke at Sasha’s expense, and that’s why she’s so against it. He proceeds with caution.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Series: you've been like a light [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668694
Comments: 12
Kudos: 345





	down for the first night

**Author's Note:**

> standard disclaimer: i am a trans person but im not transmasc, i always try to be informed abt the experiences im writing and value the insight of ppl who know it firsthand. terms used for martins body in this fic: cunt, clit, hole.

_i just live for the feeling_   
_wait for the feeling_   
_dance to the feeling of you_   
_i was down for the first night_   
_and i'm down for a second try_   
_when you touch me, i wanna fly_   
_i'm so down for you all the time_

_// carly rae jepsen, 'summer love'_

* * *

“Hey, Martin,” Tim drawls, leaning across the table just slightly to look him deep in the eyes, “can I ask you something?”

Sasha hits him rather hard on the arm, glares daggers at him. “Tim, stop,” she practically begs, looking for all the world as if she might kill him.

Apprehensive, Martin looks back and forth between the two of them a few times. He can tell Tim is up to something, but usually when Tim is up to something, it’s relatively harmless, if a bit annoying. Maybe this one is just a bad joke at Sasha’s expense, and that’s why she’s so against it. He proceeds with caution. “Er, maybe?”

Tim smiles, and it seems genuine. All of Tim’s smiles seem genuine, though, so that doesn’t mean much to Martin. “Just an innocent question, Martin, really,” he assures him.

“No, it isn’t,” Sasha deadpans without looking at either of them.

“Is it?” Martin asks, his voice a bit strained.

“Yeah,” says Tim.

 _“No,”_ says Sasha.

Rolling his eyes, Martin releases a seismic sigh. “Fine,” he concedes, voice colored with exasperation. “Now I’m curious, so go ahead.”

The grin on Tim’s face widens for a fraction of a second before he lets the question fall out of his mouth: “Would you have sex with me?”

Martin balks in surprise, his face rapidly heating up, and stammers something that sounds like it could be, _“What?”_

“I tried to warn you,” Sasha sing-songs, and then she swans off as if her work is done, leaving them to their awkward moment.

Well, it’s awkward for Martin. Tim is still just beaming at him – not leering, not a creepy or sexually charged gaze, but one filled with utter glee. He’s enjoying this.

Tim is sort of an enigma, to Martin at least, if not to everyone else. He doesn’t delight in making people uncomfortable, not really, but he has the oddest capacity to have so much fun doing anything at all, talking about anything at all. He’s just so charming, so charismatic, so bloody simple. Not _simple,_ not like that; he’s a very intelligent man. But being around him, talking to him, being his friend is so simple. It’s so easy, even when Tim is doing – _whatever_ this is.

Martin surfaces from his thoughts at the sound of Tim clearing his throat, giving him an expectant look, and he realizes Tim is waiting for him to answer the question. “I, erm…” he hedges, refusing to look at Tim. “How do you mean?”

It immediately becomes abundantly clear that this was the wrong phrasing, as Tim’s grin grows wolfish, his eyes darkening. “However you want, my friend,” he says, his voice low and mischievous. 

“Shut up, Tim, I mean,” – Martin swallows nervously – “are we talking like, hypothetically? What’s the context? What are the circumstances?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tim says offhand with a casual shrug. He sees Martin prepare to protest that it actually _does_ matter, thank you very much, so he continues, “But for the sake of argument, let’s say hypothetically… right here, right now, no strings attached. Would you?”

Martin glances furtively around the room – the break room in the archives, of all places; it’s unthinkable. And yet, he’s very much thinking about it. It might be better to do something like this in the document storage room where he's been sleeping, where there's a cot that would provide a more suitable surface for those activities, but it's the middle of the day. There's no subtle, non-suspicious way for the two of them to disappear in there for a while.

The break room door has a lock, and nobody comes down here, anyway, not when the break room upstairs is so much better stocked and so much – well, less creepy. Jon certainly won’t walk in on them, as that would require him taking a break, and Martin is positive he doesn’t even know where the break room _is._ Sasha is likely long gone, having seen this coming a mile away. Elias is always a wild card, but Martin is steadily growing more sure that he doesn’t rightly _care_ if his boss walks in on Tim eating him out on the table.

Well, that’s a vivid image. So vivid, it may actually be an answer.

“Yeah, Tim,” Martin says, the words leaving him in a rush before he can talk himself out of it, “I think I would.”

Tim licks his lips idly and smiles slowly, a victorious, triumphant thing. It would be easy to think that it was a game between the two of them, that Tim has worn him down and beat him in some way, but that’s not what it is. Martin isn’t the opponent. He’s the prize, and he can tell from Tim’s eyes that the other man thinks he’s quite a prize, indeed.

The knowledge makes his cheeks burn and his mouth go dry. Martin’s not the type to feel insecure about his appearance, but Tim is gorgeous, frankly, looks like a model – possibly was a model; Martin can’t picture it very clearly, but he seems to recall seeing some ads a few years back featuring a guy with that trademark Stoker smile – and he could get anyone he wanted. So it’s a pleasant surprise to look over the table and see just how badly Tim wants him, hunger written boldly across his face.

“Would you, actually?” Tim ventures to ask, one eyebrow raised, the casual tenor of his voice offset slightly by the roughness of it. “I mean, non-hypothetically?”

“Are you asking me if I’ll have sex with you right now?” Martin says, trying and failing to maintain an air of propriety, a pretense of scandal at the concept. “Here in the break room, in real life?”

Tim shrugs. “Yeah.”

Martin worries his lower lip with his teeth, a token level of trepidation constricting his throat slightly. He _wants_ it, of course. It’s not as if he’s desperate or anything like that, but there’s no doubt in his mind that Tim is wickedly talented, and he’s never really been one to turn down mind-blowing casual sex. He’s going through a moderate dry spell at the moment, what with staying at the archives, and he’s sure this is exactly what he needs. A weak voice in his head protests something about ruining their friendship, but he doesn’t believe for a second that that’s a real danger. And he’s already worked through his anxiety over the semi-public venue. 

“Sure,” he says at length, setting his jaw and looking resolutely up at Tim, “why not? Let’s do it.”

A short bark of a laugh escapes Tim in disbelief. “Wait, for real?”

“Yeah.” Martin cocks his head to the side, appraising Tim, not unkindly. “Unless you don’t want to? Just – you seemed to want to.”

“No, I want to,” Tim rushes to assure him. “I just didn’t think you’d agree to it.”

“Well,” says Martin matter-of-factly, “I’m agreeing to it, so you better put your money where your mouth is.”

Scrambling to comply, Tim practically falls over himself jumping out of his chair, and Martin is unsure for a moment what he’s going to do, and then he rounds the table and he – _kneels_ at Martin’s _feet,_ fucking _Christ._ The way that Tim looks up at him is worshipful, yearning, and it goes straight to Martin’s cunt, making him throb with need. He reaches out, his hand moving of its own accord to rest on the side of Tim’s face, thumb grazing over his laser-cut cheekbone. 

Tim’s eyes flutter closed and he sighs, actually _sighs,_ like an itch has been scratched. “Martin…” he murmurs, trailing off when he realizes he can’t decide what to say. He takes a moment, inhales deeply, takes in Martin’s spiced-earth scent, and asks in a voice like silk, “What do you want from me?”

“What do I – you propositioned me,” Martin whines in protest. “Shouldn’t you have ideas of your own?”

“I’ve got plenty of ideas,” Tim mutters. "Just need your help narrowing down the options, really."

"Give me some options, then."

Tim practically purrs, clearly happy to do so. "I could go down on you," he suggests casually, his hand slipping steadily up Martin's thigh. "Or bend you over the table and fuck you on my fingers until you cry. I could get you off with my hand while I taste every inch of your skin. It's up to you."

Suddenly, Martin can't seem to recall how to breathe. What he does remember, though, is how to worry about everyone but himself. "What about," he chokes out with great difficulty, then clears his throat and tries again. "What about you?"

Looking up at him with a frown and a furrowed brow, Tim repeats the question back with a different emphasis. "What _about_ me?"

"Just – I mean – none of those options seems very satisfying for you," Martin says hesitantly.

"I think getting my mouth on you would be wildly satisfying," Tim replies without missing a beat, licking his lips as if to drive home the point. "If it makes you feel better, I'll let you reciprocate."

Martin narrows his eyes. He's out of his depth with this level of attention, and he can't help but nurse a slight suspicion of Tim's intentions. Still, he wants it to be genuine, so he proceeds as if it is, mumbling, "If…you're sure…"

For a moment, it looks like Tim is actually considering backing out, calling the whole thing off. He tilts his head to the side and puts on a deep, pensive frown, one that would be obviously fake to anyone not in Martin's current state of mind. It's a tad cruel, how long he keeps Martin waiting before he speaks again in that breezy tone. "Well, we _could_ go back to mine, where I keep a drawer full of instruments that might get us both off at the same time," he says with an air of utter disregard for how the words will affect Martin. "But I'm actually kind of keen to go down on you, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, yeah, erm. Go ahead," Martin stammers as soon as he can find the words. 

He helps Tim maneuver him into a suitable position on the table before the other man situates himself in Martin's now-empty chair, moving in close and eyeing him hungrily. After carefully removing Martin's shoes, Tim's hands slide along Martin's calves, up the sides of his thighs and around to the front button of his jeans, where he pauses.

"May I?" he asks, and his voice is so soft, so gentle, and it's embarrassing, how hot that is. 

Martin's skin feels like it's on fire as he nods his assent. He watches in awe as Tim makes quick work of his jeans, then moves to grab Martin's ass with both hands, a firm hold that allows him to lift the other man's hips to slide his jeans and boxers down and off. Tim makes it look far too easy. Martin is sure he couldn't even get his own pants off that efficiently.

When Tim looks up at his face again, there's a singular, heated determination in his dark eyes. His hands are hot on Martin's thighs, fingertips against his skin like brands, squeezing and stroking the soft flesh reverently. Martin reflexively presses his legs together, squirming under his gaze.

Tim lets out a small sound of disappointment, halfway between a sigh and a groan. "You okay?" he murmurs, giving Martin a sincere look of concern. "Being modest, or is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Martin assures him in strained tones. "It's just – bit weird, is all. Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Tim says severely, then softens and adds, "please. You've nothing to be sorry for."

Martin is fully aware that it's slightly pathetic how that affirmation affects him, how the combination of Tim's eyes and his tone and his words makes Martin want to cry a little bit, but also very much makes him want to spread his legs. Fortunately, he manages the latter without inadvertently falling into the former.

Hands still resting on Martin's legs, Tim moves inward and upward as more and more of Martin is revealed, until his fingers are at the juncture of Martin's inner thighs and his pelvis. He's practically salivating, his hot breath dancing along Martin's skin, making him shudder in anticipation.

“Can I…” Tim pauses, swallows hard, presses on in a low, thick tone. “Can I touch you?”

It’s all Martin can do to give him a shaky nod in response, cut off abruptly when Tim’s fingers ghost along the outer lips of his cunt, brushing over the thick, dark hair. He moves without rushing, simply feeling out every inch of Martin, rubbing his sensitive skin with firm, deliberate strokes. When he spreads Martin open with his hands, gets a look at his swollen clit, his slick hole, Tim lets out a hungry sort of groan that makes Martin squirm and cover his face with both hands. 

It’s just – well, Martin’s had casual sex before, many times, but that was entirely unattached sex with strangers he would never see again, and this is decidedly not that. He trusts Tim with his life, and he still isn't concerned that it will impact their friendship negatively, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a bit mortifying to be so revealed, so exposed, so vulnerable and at his mercy.

Or maybe that’s not the right phrase. It's not that he's at Tim's mercy, but that he's under Tim's watch. He is putty in Tim's hands, and he is so, _so_ okay with that, but – again, mortifying. 

Tim smiles when he looks up at Martin's face and sees him hiding behind his fingers. Utterly disarmed by that smile, Martin lowers his hands to return it and raise an eyebrow at Tim, even as his face heats up further under his gaze.

"You're so _cute,"_ Tim murmurs, his smile growing impossibly wider when Martin lets out a squeak in reply. "Adorable."

"I'm not – you just – I mean," Martin hesitates, takes a deep breath, shakes his head to gather himself. “You don’t have to do that.”

Tim’s eyebrows draw up and together in a sincere expression of concern. “I know I don’t have to,” he says. “I’m only saying what I’m thinking.”

His tone is a particular one unique to him, the tone he breaks out when he’s fed up with Martin’s humility – that’s what Martin calls it, at least; Tim calls it _self-deprecation_ on a good day, _bullshit_ on a bad one – and wants it to be known. He can’t be rude or angry, of course, because it isn’t Martin’s fault and because berating him would only make him feel bad and exacerbate his self-esteem issues, but he puts on a voice that makes it clear he won’t allow any further argument. Martin secretly refers to it as Tim’s _take a fucking compliment_ tone. 

So that’s what he does now: he takes the compliment, mumbles a “Thank you” while avoiding eye contact. 

Tim decides not to push the issue, choosing instead to slip his fingertips slowly closer to Martin’s dripping core, eyes glued to his face. Martin’s mouth hangs open, his eyes closed, small spasms crossing his face as Tim pushes inside him, thrusts two fingers in deep. He relishes the way Martin tenses and wiggles his hips to encourage him to move, a hint that Tim gladly takes. His free hand resting on Martin’s plush thigh, Tim presses the pad of his thumb against Martin’s clit as he fucks him open on his fingers, scissoring and twisting them to elicit little gasps and moans from Martin.

“Fuck, Martin, you’re so…” Tim trails off, staring up at him with eyes full of wonder and dark with lust. “I always knew you’d be lovely like this.”

“You’ve thought about this?” Martin squeaks.

“Come on, you know me.” The easy grin on Tim’s face hasn’t faded one bit, and he speaks casually as ever while he works his fingers in and out of Martin’s wet cunt. “Rarely know anyone for long without at least _thinking_ about fucking them. But you’re – have to admit, I’ve dwelled on you just a bit.”

A desperate moan escapes Martin in response to a certain angle of Tim’s fingers before he manages to take a deep breath and ask softly, “Why?”

Tim actually has the gall to roll his eyes at that. “Martin Blackwood, are you not aware of how sexy you are?” he asks, and Martin clenches down on his fingers with a whine. “No, I suppose not,” Tim continues breezily, “because nobody ever tells you, do they? Well, I’m telling you now: you’re a catch, Martin, really.”

Even knowing how Tim will respond, Martin can’t help but protest. “I’m _not,”_ he mutters with a shake of his head.

“You are,” Tim replies gravely, leveling him with a look best described as a sympathetic glare. 

“Why – why are you being so – why d’you keep saying those things?”

Sighing gently, Tim slides his fingers out of Martin’s cunt, rests his hands again on the very innermost part of Martin’s thighs, looks up at him with a curious sort of sadness. “You’re pretty much my best friend, you know that? I mean, you and Sasha, but you know I’m not sleeping with her. I just – I mean, I’m… okay.” He takes a deep breath, composing himself and finding his words while Martin watches and waits. When he speaks again, his voice is as soft as rain. “I care about you, Martin, and I want you to know that you’re not – you’re not a _conquest,_ alright? That’s not how I operate, and it’s especially not how I see you.”

“Okay,” Martin whispers almost inaudibly. “Thanks, Tim. Really.”

“You’re absolutely welcome,” Tim replies in an earnest velvet voice. He dips his head low, indicating unquestionably his intended next move, and pauses to ask, “Now – would you mind?”

A small, shaky laugh bubbles up from Martin’s throat, and he nods his head. “Go for it,” he says, finally feeling properly comfortable with the whole situation. Now that he’s fully gotten past his insecurity and his anxieties about Tim’s motives, he’s once again stuck on the thought of how heavenly Tim’s mouth will feel on him, and he’s really quite eager for it.

Fortunately, Tim is even more eager, tired of stalling. He wastes no time diving in to wrap his lips around Martin’s clit and suck hungrily, swirling his tongue around it and revelling in the sounds Martin makes. Before long, he brings his fingers back down to press into the slick heat of Martin’s cunt.

“Fuck,” Martin whimpers, his thighs trembling, and the profanity goes straight to Tim’s core. He’s already well past turned on, has been soaking through his boxer briefs since around the time he got Martin undressed, but he’s verging on desperate at this point. The taste of Martin and the wet warmth tight around Tim’s fingers and the way he shakes and moans as Tim pulls him apart – it’s enough to have him pressing his thighs close together, grinding down in his chair in search of stimulation.

He’s making no small amount of noise, himself, moaning wantonly as he slides his tongue along the inner folds of Martin’s cunt. Up one side, down the other, just barely grazing the man’s swollen clit on the way, making him shudder. Tim lets his eyes fall shut as he slips his tongue into Martin’s hole alongside his two fingers, licks hotly inside with a series of obscene wet sounds, losing himself in the indulgent pleasure of the act.

Martin’s hands find their way into Tim’s hair, tugging just gently as he shifts his hips to rub against Tim’s face. Tim’s fingers move deep inside his cunt, stroking sensitive spots relentlessly as he fucks them in and out, a torturous complement to the undulations of his tongue. His soft and swollen lips graze along Martin’s slick center as he moves, his nose rubbing against Martin’s clit every so often, making him keen.

“Oh God, oh _fuck,_ Tim,” Martin gasps out between high-pitched moans. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Tim wouldn’t dream of it, of course. He takes the hand that’s not currently engaged in fingering Martin like his life depends on it, brings it up to play with his clit, providing a more consistent, purposeful pressure than the haphazard movements of his nose. Martin responds beautifully, a breathless whine and a tightening of his fingers in Tim’s hair. He’s so close to coming undone, Tim can tell, and he wants nothing more than to make it happen.

He doubles down on his efforts, pinching and rolling Martin’s clit between his fingertips, thrusting his tongue and his fingers inside his hot cunt, hard and deep. Tim is fairly sure he could happily die here and now. 

That thought came none too soon, apparently, because what happens next is certainly Tim’s personal version of heaven. Martin chokes something out – a warning, a plea, a prayer – and comes, suddenly, like a dam bursting. His thighs squeeze tight on either side of Tim’s head, soft flesh hiding strong muscle, trapping him there, as if he would ever choose to pull away. He continues to fuck Martin through his orgasm, drinking it in, lapping hungrily at his slick hole for as long as Martin will allow.

When Martin goes boneless and limp, heaving an exhausted sigh, Tim finally pulls back. Wordlessly and without hesitation, he lifts his hand to his mouth and begins to lick it clean of Martin’s juices, sucking eagerly on the two fingers that were inside Martin’s cunt only seconds earlier. Once he’s satisfied himself with that, he casually wipes at his chin with his sleeve, looking up at Martin with wide eyes.

“Thanks for letting me do that,” he says, his voice low and rough. 

Martin lets out a hoarse, tired laugh, looks at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding? Thank _you,_ Tim, that was fantastic. Can I – I mean, do you want me to –?”

Tim smiles and shakes his head. “No, I’m good right now,” he assures Martin, and he means it. He may be hopelessly aroused, but all he wanted was to get his mouth on Martin, and he’s done it, and he doesn’t need anything else. “Maybe another time I’ll take you back to my place and give you the full experience? If you want.”

“Don’t know if I’d _survive_ the full experience,” Martin mumbles under his breath. And then, as if a switch has been flipped, all his nervous energy returns in full force, the insecure, uncertain, blushing and stammering Martin replacing the temporarily mellowed persona that came out post-orgasm. “Sounds lovely, though, I’m – I’m definitely interested. I mean, if you wanted to – I don’t know, like if you’d like to do this again sometime, or regularly, or – or _often,_ even, I would be open to that.”

“Of course,” Tim replies, a soothing lilt to his voice as he pushes his chair back, gives Martin room to hop down from the table, helps him steady his legs. He tries not to watch as Martin dresses, but he gets a couple of inadvertent glances and feels a pulsing reminder of the heat between his legs, making a mental note to take care of it when he gets home.

Martin takes an extra minute before they leave to wipe down the table with some sort of lemon-scented cleaning solution, muttering, “Keep telling Elias to provide these things for us, but he never listens.” Tim gives him a look, fond and amused, and huffs out a little laugh. “Hey, I’m being conscientious, alright?” Martin says defensively. “I’m the one who keeps these things around, and it’s all laughs until someone’s goulash explodes in the microwave, isn’t it?”

Tim is just grinning at him, a wide, bright smile that lights up his whole face, and Martin feels a bit self-conscious, so he keeps talking as he returns the spray and the paper towels to the cupboard. “Sorry, it’s just – well, I’m a bit on edge about cleanliness, since that whole thing with my flat,” he babbles, looking resolutely anywhere but at Tim’s face. “And since I basically live here now, I guess it’s more important to me to keep the place tidy than it otherwise would be. And I – and I suppose I don’t really know what else to do or, or say right now, so I’m just going through the motions of my nervous habits and hoping that you’ll leave, or say something, or do anything to shut me the hell up.”

At last, having run out of things to say for the time being, Martin looks up again to see that Tim is standing much closer than he thought. He’s hit first with the faint, musky scent that he thinks of as uniquely Tim, and then before he can react, Tim grabs his face in both his hands and kisses him. 

It’s deep, Tim’s tongue quickly slipping into his mouth, but oh so gentle, the way Tim cradles his cheeks as if he’s a precious thing. He sucks lightly at Martin’s lower lip, then grazes it with his teeth, experimenting with textures and pressures, every movement calculated and painstakingly carried out. Martin kisses him back, of course, reciprocates each move in kind, brings his hands to rest on Tim’s shoulders. He can taste himself in Tim’s mouth, and the thought of that is enough to pull a soft moan from him.

Eventually, Tim pulls back, keeping his warm palms covering Martin’s flushed cheeks, his thumbs brushing along Martin’s cheekbones. “Was that okay?” he asks, uncharacteristically nervous.

“Yeah,” Martin breathes. “Yeah, it was fine. Good.”

“Good,” echoes Tim with a single nod of his head. “I should’ve done that before, really. I wanted to, but – I was impatient, it completely slipped my mind. Won’t happen again.”

Martin blinks a few times in shock. It’s silly that after everything that’s just happened, this is what does him in. It’s ridiculous, he scolds himself internally, to be speechless at the small surprise of hearing that Tim wanted to kiss him. _Wants_ to kiss him. Kissed him, and plans to do it again. Martin has had far too many one-night stands who outright refused intimacy like that. He wonders vaguely if his type may be a bit unhealthy.

In any case, Tim cares about him. Tim is a thousand times better than any guy Martin has picked up in a bar, and Martin makes a vow to himself to stop comparing him to them. He makes a vow to let himself have this – whatever they’ve got, now with this additional dimension, but still the same friendship, safe and secure and caring. 

As they leave the break room together, uncaring or unaware of how obvious it is what they’ve been up to, Martin turns to face Tim with a curious quirk of his eyebrow. “Hey, Tim,” he says hesitantly, “how – how – why did Sasha know what you were going to ask me?”

Tim’s face flushes dark for a moment before he turns away, staring at the floor to avoid Martin’s gaze, especially as the other man’s jaw drops in shock at his bashful display. Not that Tim can blame him, really; he knows perfectly well how rare it is to see him embarrassed about anything, and if he were in Martin’s place, he would be absolutely delighted. He tries to mumble something, to wave him off, but Martin insists, says something about _tit for tat_ and _it’s only fair_ that makes a shiver run down Tim’s spine.

“Fine, fine,” Tim says, stopping abruptly in the middle of the hall, leaning against the wall and glancing off to either side to ensure nobody else is in earshot. “Sasha and I are really close, alright, and she knew – I mean, I talked to her a few times about how I wanted… wanted you. And I had asked her to help me, er, figure out how to – you know, how to broach the subject with you. She thought it was a bad idea to just come out and ask, so that’s why she, you know, reacted like that.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, just gives him a shining, giddy smile. It’s an accomplishment for him to have exposed Tim in this way, a point of pride for him, and Tim is alright with that. He’d be alright with anything, if it made Martin smile like that. Still, he wouldn’t be himself if he let on that much, so he shakes his head and huffs out a breath, making to keep walking back to their workspace, ignoring the glow of Martin’s pride as best he can manage.

Back at their desks, Martin catches from the corner of his eye what looks like Sasha giving Tim a massive thumbs-up. He pretends he didn’t see it, staring determinedly down at whatever he’s supposed to be working on at the moment, his cheeks burning and his mouth twisted into an amused little smile. He’ll tease Tim about it later, he decides, when he has the time and the privacy to _thoroughly_ make up for it.


End file.
